This Street, That Man, This Life
by buffyaddict
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate the disappearance of a young girl...and things go downhill fast. Features: Winchester whumpage, Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean and Limp!Sam. Spoilers through Hunted.
1. Chapter 1

Title: This Street, That Man, This Life

Author: buffyaddict

Rating: R for violence and language

Pairing/Characters: None. Sam, Dean, OCs

A/N: Sam and Dean investigate the disappearance of a young girl. Things go bad. Features: Winchester whumpage, Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean

* * *

Chapter 1: This Street

_This street holds its secrets like a cobra holds its kill  
This street minds its business like a jailer minds his jail  
That house there is haunted  
That door's a portal to hell  
This street holds its secrets very well -- _Cowboy Junkies

The house is quiet when Olivia Davis gets home from school. There's a post-it note on the hall mirror that reads: _I took Adam to the dentist. Be back in 45. _Olivia grabs the note and heads up to her room. If she's quick she can surf the internet a while before Mom gets home. The Shedd Aquarium has a new exhibit she wants to check out. She tosses her book bag on her bed and clicks the computer monitor on.

Hesitates.

Something is different about her room.

Her eyes narrow and she thinks, _If Adam was in here I'll kill him._

But nothing looks out of place. Nothing seems missing. She stands in the middle of the room and frowns.

Something just feels..._different._

Her eyes fall on the closet door. It's open a crack. Barely an inch.

_So what?_

She's being ridiculous. She shouldn't have watched _The Grudge_ last weekend. Now she's all paranoid. She reaches for the handle and pulls the door open to reveal--

a bunch of skirts and sweaters.

She snorts. _Doofus_. Of course there's nothing there. What did she expect? Sighing, she turns back to the computer.

Olivia stares, stunned, and the room wavers as she inhales a shocked breath.

There's someone standing behind her.

He almost looks familiar. Except for the eyes. The eyes are dark pools of night. Of death. She decides she doesn't care who it is, because her brain tells her he's _bad_ and _wrong_ and she needs to _run._

She opens her mouth to scream.

The man smiles at her. She sees the teeth--_oh my god--_and stands frozen.

"Hello, Olivia," the things says softly and lays a hand on her arm.

When she sees what's in his other hand her chest hitches and a scream finally breaks free.

---

They stumble into the motel room, soaked to the skin. Ash and dirt cling to wet clothes and hair. Sam shakes his head and a spray of water and ash flies in a wide arc.

Dean grimaces and takes a quick step back. "Whoa there, Shaggy. Watch where you shake that mop."

Sam wipes his wet face with an equally wet sleeve. He tosses a damp duffel bag onto the floor. "Man," he groans, "did that suck."

Dean collapses into a chair. "I would have to agree with you on that one."

"Maybe next time we hunt a ghoul we should watch the weather channel first."

"Sounds like a plan to me." Dean glances around the room. "Hey, did you bring my bag in?"

Sam frowns. "No. Why?" He peers through the window. "Did you--" The click of the bathroom door interrupts him.

Dean's laughter filters through from the other side. "Gotcha!"

Sam pounds on the door. "Come on, man! You're going to use up all the hot water!"

"I thought you were sick of water."

"_Dean!"_

Sam can almost hear Dean's smile. "Sucks to be you."

---

When Dean unlocks the door and he finds Sam sitting on the bed. Sam's wet clothes are in a heap on the floor and he's wearing sweatpants and a _Strongbad_ t-shirt.

"Your turn, Samantha," Dean says with a grin.

Sam looks up from the laptop long enough to glare at his brother. "Nice."

Dean unwraps a few knives and lays them on his bed. He shrugs and gives Sam a _what? _look.

Sam rolls his eyes and scrolls through a series of e-mails.

Dean seats himself on the edge of the bed, picks up large knife and starts sharpening.

Sam's brow knits and he makes a "hmm" sound.

The knife pauses over the whetstone. "What?"

"I got an e-mail from Ellen. Apparently, some realtor Dad helped out a few years ago was looking for him. She made her way to Ellen and Ellen sent her on to us."

"Why was she looking for Dad? A poltergeist or something?"

"I'm not sure. Let's see...blah blah blah...okay, here we go: 'This is the third time the house has been sold in the past four years. Each time a member of the family living there goes missing. There's never been any sign of foul play, but the circumstances are suspicious, at least to me. The first time a seventeen year old boy disappeared. The second time a single woman disappeared'." Sam checks to see if Dean's listening. He is. "She was nineteen," Sam continues. "Bought the house with some inheritance after her parents died."

"And the third time?" Dean prompts.

"A thirteen year old girl disappeared last Tuesday. The mom and brother came home from a dentist appointment and the house was empty." Sam studies the screen a little too intently. _An empty house. Like Ava._

Dean sets the knife down, picks up another one. "Maybe she ran away."

"The realtor--her name's Kim--says the kid's backpack was in her room, her coat was in the closet."

Dean purses his lips, thinks. "Three times in four years?"

"That's right."

"And none of them have been found?"

Sam scans the e-mail a second time. He shakes his head. "Nope. Not so far."

"We'll find her," Dean says. He's not talking about the little girl.

---

"Listen to this."

The Impala moves through the rain and Dean flicks the windshield wipers up a notch. "What?"

"It says here that Belvidere is located in Boone County." The faint glow of the laptop turns Sam's face blue.

Dean doesn't like the effect. "So?"

"I'm pretty sure Dad mentions Boone County in his journal. It's supposed to be one of the most haunted counties in Illinois."

"And that's where we're going?"

"Yeah. 212 Grove Street, Belvidere."

"At least it won't be boring," Dean says, leaning over to shut Sam's laptop.

"Hey," Sam protests, "I wasn't done."

Dean grins, eyes on the road. "You are now."

---

Belvidere doesn't look haunted. It looks like an average Midwestern town filled with cardboard houses on conveyor belt streets. Boxy shopping malls cap each end of the main drag.

The Davis house is two stories with white aluminum siding. Nothing special. The houses along Grove Street are well kept, but nothing to write home about. It reminds Dean of the picket fences and apple pie Sam used to go on about. Dean casts a sidelong glance at Sam. Sam doesn't talk about _normal_ anymore. Dean doesn't know if he should feel guilty about that or not.

Dean pulls at his tie and Sam slaps his hand away. "Stop it," he warns. "We've got to look the part." He exits the car door looking clean and respectable in his dark suit. Dean studies Sam's back, wondering if this is how Sam might have dressed in his normal, lawyer life. He knows he should feel guilty--and he does--for everything Sam's lost. But the relief that Sam is still with him (_safe_) outweighs the guilt. And then he remembers Dad's words and wonders if Sam is really safe after all.

Sam glances back. "You coming?"

Dean shuts the car door, not quite meeting Sam's gaze. "Keep your skirt on, Samantha."

---

Kathryn Davis is tired of talking.

She's talked to Kevin. Her parents. The police. The neighbors. The one person she wants to talk to is Adam and he won't talk to her.

She rubs her eyes and looks at the men seated across from her. Now the FBI are here. And apparently the FBI is recruiting out of middle school, because that's about how old these two look. Kathryn sniffs and runs a hand through her hair. "Can I get you some coffee? Or tea?" She hopes they decline because she doesn't want to make them anything, she doesn't want to _move_. She definitely doesn't want to talk. She wants them to leave. So she can be alone with her grief.

The sandy haired one, Agent Ulrich, smiles and shakes his head. "No thanks."

The one with shaggy brown hair--_do they really let you have hair like that in the FBI?_--gives her a sincere look. His eyes are so honest and understanding, _I know what it's like to lose someone, I really do,_ she wants to weep on the spot. "No thank you, Mrs. Davis."

She sniffs again. "Please. Call me Kathryn. I'm not Mrs. Davis anymore, anyway." She sighs and looks at the one with the _eyes_. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

He nods and smiles. "Agent Rhoads. Sam Rhoads."

Dean clears his throat. "Kathryn? Did anything unusual happen before your daughter's disappearance?"

Kathryn stares. "Unusual? Like the fact I took my own daughter for granted and now that she's gone I'd cut my own arm off to have her back?"

Dean grimaces and his eyes flick to Sam for support. "Well, I, uh--"

Sam reaches a hand out and puts it next to hers, almost touching. "What my partner means is, did you notice anyone loitering in front of the house?" he suggests. "Any strange phone calls? Unexplained noises? A feeling like you're being watched?"

Kathryn shakes her head. "No. Nothing."

"Did Olivia mention anything to you? Or your son, Adam?"

Kathryn wants nothing more than to lay down on the kitchen floor and sleep. She can see herself push her chair back and stretch out on the worn linoleum. "She didn't say anything. Nobody said anything. We went to the dentist. We came home. Olivia was gone." Kathryn's voice spirals and she clears her throat. "Her stuff was here. But she wasn't." She raises red-rimmed eyes to Rhoads and he looks back with the sad dog eyes. Before she can stop herself, she says "I want you to find her."

Sam nods. "We'll do our best."

Kathryn's lips tighten. "No. I want _you_ to find her."

Dean smiles nervously. "That is our job, ma'am."

Kathryn stares down at the table top for a long moment. When she looks up her smile is a rubber band stretched across her face. "I've talked to the police already. I thought you were the cavalry when it comes to kidnapping. Somebody goes missing, they call the FBI."

The men exchange a look she can't identify.

Sam nods. This time he does put his hand on hers. It's a big hand. She closes her eyes and imagines it punching the face of whoever took Olivia. "You're right. We are the cavalry." He offers a self-deprecating smile. "Such as it is." He glances toward the hallway. "Can we see Olivia's room? Maybe talk to Adam?"

Kathryn nods. "Of course. Go ahead." She waves a hand vaguely to the left. "Olivia's room is at the top of the stairs."

Sam and Dean stand. "Thanks," Sam says softly.

"You don't need me to come, do you?" she asks.

The agents exchange looks again. "Not unless you want to," Sincere Eyes says.

Kathryn rests her head on her arms. "I'm fine right here," she says. From this angle she can see the dirty dishes. Olivia's favorite mug is next to the sink.

She closes her eyes. It's not the floor, but it'll do.

---

Olivia's room doesn't look the way Sam expects. He expects _pink_ and _nail polish_ and _stuffed animals_.

Olivia's room does have one stuffed animal. But it's gray and sort of flat and resembles a manta ray. So he's not sure if that counts.

The room is sky blue. Antique maps of bodies of water decorate the walls. A piece of fishing net is strung up above her bed. It holds a variety of sand dollars, snail shells and a variety of other shells he doesn't recognize. There are also some small glass bottles capped with corks. Some of the bottles contain fragments of paper and Sam can read one. It says _DREAM._

The far wall shows a mural of sand and water and tide pools.

Sam stands in the doorway, stunned. "Wow," he breathes. And very softly, "I think I want this to be _my_ room."

Dean squinches his lips. "Huh. Not what I expected."

"Me either. I mean, I was in Jess's room, and well, hers was a little more girly."

_He can still see himself lying with Jess on her bed. They're shoulder to shoulder and she's showing him old photos. Little girl Jess in a ballet tutu at Halloween. Jess with braces. Jess in a silver dress standing with a boy Sam has an unreasonable desire to punch. She turns and smiles at him, whispers something vaguely naughty in his ear and he grins. A tendril of hair falls in her face and she's so beautiful and Sam thinks, _so this is what normal is.

Sam pushes the memory away. It still hurts. But it's not the constant agony it once was. Her loss has settled into a dull ache. Sam isn't sure whether he should feel guilty about the change or not.

"Dude? You okay?"

Dean is looking at him funny and Sam pulls on a smile. It's not a good fit, but it's close enough. "Yeah."

Dean works his way methodically around the room. After ten minutes of steady silence he's beginning to think the search is a bust. But the EMF meter lets out a warble when he nears the closet.

That's a start.

Sam steps into the closet. He checks the back of the closet door, the shelf above the clothes. Finally he pushes an armful of skirts out of the way.

He stumbles backward, heart hammering.

There's a woman looking at him from the back of the closet.

She's pale and her cracked lips are tinged blue. Her eyes are two burnt holes. Her voice is dry as ash and just as soft. "Save her," she whispers.

Sam can barely hear her above the roar in his ears. He manages a "Who are you?" that sounds much calmer than he feels.

There's no answer.

The woman is gone.

Dean stares at Sam, nonplussed. "What do you mean, who am I?"

Sam digs in the closet, frantically flinging clothes aside, peering at the inner wall. "Not you," he snaps, frustrated. "I saw something. Someone. A spirit." He thinks about the name Dana Schulps. "Maybe a death omen." He pokes his head back out toward Dean. "You didn't hear anything?"

"Just my lame brother."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Give me that." He grabs the EMF from Dean's hand. As soon as it's in the closet the warble becomes a whistle.

He thrusts the meter back at Dean and pulls out the camcorder. He looks carefully around the small dark space.

_Yahtzee._

There's a faint bluish white aura right where he saw the ghost's face.

"Look at this," Sam commands, holding out the camcorder.

Dean looks. He whistles. "Will you look at that." He switches the camcorder off and turns to Sam. "So what exactly did you see?"

Sam shrugs. "There wasn't much to see. Just a woman's face. She looked about my age, maybe younger. I think she had brown hair, but it was hard to tell."

"So it wasn't Olivia?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. And she said _save her_. Which I'm assuming means save Olivia."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"So in other words, not a real helpful spirit."

"No, but she didn't try to kill me. That's a plus."

---

They're putting away the equipment when Dean spots the kid standing in the hallway.

"Who are you?"

Sam looks over the top of Dean's head at the boy standing in the doorway. He's pale. Dark haired. Piercing blue eyes watch him from behind Harry Potter-style glasses.

"I'm Agent Ulrich," Dean says and nods over his shoulder to Sam. "This is Agent Rhoads."

The boy just stares at them with his large eyes. Sizing them up.

Dean clears his throat. "So, uh, are you Adam? Olivia's brother?"

The boy mumbles something that might be a yes.

Apparently they pass his internal inspection because he joins them in his sister's room. "What was that noise I heard before?"

Dean tries bluffing. "What noise?"

"Oh, you must have heard the scanner," Sam says smoothly. "We've got a piece of new equipment we're trying out. It's sort of a fingerprint scanner. Have you seen how the police dust for fingerprints on TV?"

Adam nods.

"Well it's kind of like that. Only instead of using the dust, it scans for fingerprints."

Adam looks mildly dubious, but accepts the answer. "Did you find anything?"

Sam sighs. "No so far." At the look on Adam's face, he quickly continues, "But we're not done looking."

Adam perches on the edge of his sister's bed. He looks sad and scared and lonely. It's a look Dean recognizes well. He seats himself beside the boy. "This has gotta be rough, huh?"

Adam swallows. "It's my fault, you know."

Sam and Dean exchange glances. "Why is it your fault?" Sam wonders.

The boy bows his head and studies his hands. "I had to get my braces tightened. I have this appliance thing on the roof of my mouth. If I hadn't had the appointment we would have been home. Liv would still be here."

Sam shakes his head. "Believe me, Adam. This is not your fault. You couldn't help having an appointment."

Adam's face goes splotchy with shame. "Yeah, I could have. I had candy. And I'm not supposed to. It broke the wire and we had to make a special appointment."

He raises his head and both brothers read the misery in his eyes.

Dean looks hard at the boy. "Listen to me, kid. I don't care if you ate a whole candy store and all your teeth fell out. You could have been home, you could have been to the dentist, you could have been on the moon." He lifts his hands, in a _who knows_ gesture. "If somebody wanted to take your sister, it wouldn't make a difference where you were. It's not your fault."

Sam offers Adam a gentle smile. "He's right. It's _not_ your fault. At all."

Adam swallows. He shrugs. "Maybe," he concedes with a mumble.

"Not maybe," Dean continues. "You aren't responsible for your sister, kiddo."

Adam sighs. "I know. But she always acts like she's responsible for me. She looks out for me and stuff. She's pretty okay," his voice trembles, "for a girl."

"I'm sure she is," Sam says.

Adam tells them, "She wanted--wants to be a marine biologist."

Dean smiles. "That explains the shells."

Adam swallows. "I used to make fun of her. I told her she liked shells more than people."

Dean pats Adam's arm. "I bet she knew you were just joking around."

The three of them sit in silence for a while.

It's not awkward.

It's just one big brother and two little ones.

Sam eventually risks, "Adam, did Liv say anything to you about anyone following her?"

The boy shakes his head.

"Have you heard any weird noises or seen anything suspicious lately?"

Adam looks confused. "What do you mean? Like, in the house?"

Sam nods. "That's right."

Adam nibbles his bottom lip in concentration. "I don't think so." He pauses. "Do you think this has anything to do with those other people?"

"What other people?"

"There were some people who lived here before us. A teenager. And a lady. They disappeared too."

Sam and Dean share a pointed look.

Adam looks from one brother to the other. "You guys knew about that, didn't you?"

"Yeah. We knew about that," Dean answers. "We're wondering how you knew about it."

Adam rolls his eyes. "That's easy. My mom and dad were arguing about it."

Sam's eyebrows lift. "They were?"

"My dad says the house is cursed and my mom never should have moved us here."

Dean clears his throat. "What do you think?"

Adam stands, shrugs. "I don't know. I don't think I believe in curses. But there's lots of stuff I don't know about yet. So I guess it could be true." Adam looks at Dean curiously. "Besides, I didn't think FBI guys believed in curses and stuff. That's, like, the X-Files and stuff."

"The X-Files is just make-believe," Dean grins. "But me and my partner are a bit more open-minded than some FBI agents. Maybe there is something to this so-called curse. We'll look into it, okay?"

Adam stares at them a moment. Then a faint smile lights his face. "Okay."

---

Dean gives Sam a look. "A fingerprint scanner? That's the best you could do?"

Sam huffs. "At least I tried. Here's you," he makes a _duh_ face, "d'oh, what noise?" He shakes his head in disgust. "I told you we should have come back when they were gone."

Dean waves a hand, dismissing Sam's complaint. "Whatever, dude. We found something, right? That's what matters." Dean perks up. "Plus, you got to talk to dead people."

Sam's glare is radioactive. If it were aimed at anyone other than Dean, it might have had an effect.

"Tomorrow Adam will be at school and Kathryn will be at work. We'll come back then."

"Fine," Sam grits.

They let themselves out the front door and head to the car.

"I want to do some research on the history of the house and the previous occupants. Maybe stop by the Register of Deeds and see if I can find out anything interesting about neighboring properties."

"Okay. And while you try not to get a paper cut I'll drop by dear old Dad's house. We can have a nice chat about curses."

"Fine. You can drop me off. The courthouse is just a few blocks from the library. I can walk. When you're done talking to Mr. Davis, come and get me."

"Dude. I'll come and get you when I feel like it."

"As long as it's as soon as you're done with–" Sam stops abruptly. Movement at the window distracts him.

A woman stands in the driveway. She's bent forward, her face to the passenger window.

It's the ghost from Olivia's room.

In the daylight Sam has a better view of her. She's wearing Betty Boop pajamas. Her hair is long and whips around her face in a way that makes Sam think of mythological stories from his childhood. She puts a palm against the window and Sam can see there's a deep wound there. He catches a brief glimpse of bone. She slides her hand and the wound moves like a mouth. Sam's stomach heaves and he presses his hands to head, willing the nausea away. "What do you want?" he asks.

She lowers her face to the glass. Her lips move and there's no condensation on the window. Her eyes burn. "You're closer than you think."

And then she's gone.

There's nothing but grass and sky and unkempt bushes along the edge of the driveway.

Sam slumps in his seat. He tries to shut out the image of her face. Of her hand.

"Sam." Dean's voice is like an anchor. "Was it the ghost?"

Sam nods.

Dean ponders. "I saw something this time. Like a shadow outside the window."

Sam's relieved. At least this means the ghost isn't just in his imagination. "She said _you're closer than you think._"

"Closer to finding Olivia? To becoming Miss America? Closer to _what?"_

Sam's not in the mood for jokes. Wearily he asks, "Just take me to the library, okay?"

Dean starts the car. He casts a sideways look at Sam, trying to read him. "I'll be there as soon as I'm done with Jeff Davis."

---

Sam spends an inordinate amount of time slogging through old microfiches. But there's nothing to learn. After an hour he doesn't know much about what is wrong with the house. But he has a good understanding of what's not wrong with the house.

It wasn't built on a burial ground of any kind. Or on the remains of a hospital. Or on the foundation of an old prison. And it wasn't built on the remains of a sanitarium.

No one was murdered in the house since it was built (in 1956). No one committed suicide there. There wasn't any trouble at all until about four years ago.

The house is on a corner lot and there are two neighbors. Three, if you count across the street. All the neighbors have been cooperative. Of course, no one saw anything.

Claire and Robert Mower live to the east. They were both at work when Olivia vanished.

Matthias Townsend lives to the west. He's in his seventies. Uses a cane. He was home when Olivia vanished.

John Talbot lives across the street. He drives a semi for a living and has been gone for the past week.

The Mowers have lived in their house for two years. So they moved in after the weird business at 212 Grove Street. John Talbot moved in ten years ago. Matthias Townsend moved in fifteen years ago according to real estate records. One of the forms at the Register of Deeds shows that the Grove Street property is not his primary residence. Sam wonders if that means anything.

When Dean comes to get him he's waiting on a bench outside the library with a stack of photocopies and a headache.

Dean's got a bag of lukewarm hamburgers. He offers one to Sam. Sam unwraps it with little enthusiasm. "Well? How is Mr. Davis?"

Dean takes a bite of his own burger and chews. "Don't ask me," he says with his mouth full, "the dude wasn't home." He swallows. "He's got a decent apartment though."

Sam lifts an eyebrow. _And_?

"According to the manger he's visiting his folks out of state. He's all broken up over Liv's disappearance, yadda, yadda."

Sam drops his burger back in the bag. "Wow. You're all heart, Dean." He reaches for the fresh coffee in the drink holder. "So what have you been doing all this time?"

"Nothing."

"And by 'nothing', you mean going to a bar?"

Dean grins. "Maybe."

"Dean."

"Back off, man. I played a few games of pool, that's all."

"While I sat at the library doing real work?" Sam growls.

"I did work," Dean huffs defensively. "How do you think I paid for dinner?"

Sam makes a disgruntled face. "I thought you just picked it out of the garbage."

Dean digs in the bag for Sam's uneaten burger. He holds up a yellow wrapper and grins. "I guess this means I can have your burger."

---

He's dreaming.

He's on a beach watching the sun spread pink fists across the horizon. It's breathtaking. And Jess stands beside him, her arm tucked through his. He wants to keep this moment forever. Fold it up like an origami crane and keep it in his pocket.

"Sam."

Jessica's face wavers.

"_Sam_."

Sam blinks awake and turns to Dean.

Dean's sleeping.

Sam turns the other way and comes face to face with the ghost. Her mouth moves and Sam guesses it might be her idea of a smile.

"He's going to kill you."

Sam's first thought is, Dean? Dean might have to kill him if he turns into something he's not. But Sam's not a monster. Yet. "Who?"

"The man."

"The man who took Olivia?"

"The man who took me."

Sam blinks awake. He sits up and looks around the room.

Dean's sleeping.

He slides out of bed and moves lightly across the room. He snaps on the little desk light and starts frantically shuffling through papers. Sam decides to concentrate more on _the man who took me_ and less on the _he's going to kill you. _There's no sense worrying Dean.

Dean groans and rolls over. "Sam, you better be having a vision or dying. There's no other reason to be awake right now."

"Yeah there is, Dean." Sam finds the page he's looking for and moves over to Dean's bed. He turns on another light and Dean pulls a pillow over his face.

"Did you have a vision?"

"No, but I had– "

Dean cuts him off with a second muffled question. "Are you dying?"

_He said I had to save you…and if I couldn't, I might have to kill you, Sammy_

_He's going to kill you._

Sam rubs a hand over his face. "Not at this moment."

"Well you're about to if you don't turn out that light."

Sam smiles thinly. If Dean were more awake, he'd have never made that joke. Not now.

"Dean, forget about the light. I know who the ghost is. I dreamed about her and she said _the man who took me_. As soon as I woke up I checked, and sure enough, I was right. I can't believe I didn't realize it sooner."

Dean shifts the pillow a fraction lower. "Realize what?"

"The ghost is Lisa Halverson, the nineteen year old woman who went missing."

That's enough to make Dean toss the pillow. "Let me see."

Sam hands him a photocopy of a grainy newspaper clipping. The headline reads:_ Nineteen Year Old Woman Missing_. There's a small black and white photo of a young woman with long hair and a friendly smile. Sam points at the picture. "That's her."

Dean's jaw muscle works as he studies the photo. He looks back up at Sam. "Do you think Olivia is dead too?"

Sam runs a hand through his tousled hair. He can still hear Kathryn's voice, _I want you to find my daughter_. "I hope not."

---

By 10:00 a.m. they're back at the Davis house.

The house is empty and Dean and Sam make short work of the remaining rooms. Aside from Olivia's closet, the EMF doesn't pick up anything upstairs.

Downstairs the EMF shrieks once near the dining room window. They move back and forth across the room a dozen times. The window is the only place the EMF reacts.

Dean nods toward the back yard. "Let's check outside."

They repeat the process beneath the window outside.

The meter's reaction is much louder.

Dean looks toward Matthais Townsend's house, then back at Sam. "What do you think?"

"I think we sho– " Pain crushes the words back down his throat. Sam puts his hands to his head and a distant part of him realizes he's falling.

The world shatters into mosaic patterns.

He wades through the pain; waiting from something to reassemble that makes sense.

He's no longer outdoors. He's in a dark enclosed space. A cage. His brain screams _the Benders_ but he knows that can't be right. Besides, the cage door is open and there's light ahead.

He moves through a doorway into a large, well-lit room. He's in a basement. There's a large sturdy table in the center of the room.

He can see a girl on the table. One wrist and ankle secured to each wooden leg. He moves closer, feeling sick, afraid to look. The table is stained with a veneer of blood.

A man leans over Olivia Davis, his voice gentle. "I'm going to cut you now, Olivia. I won't kill you, but it will hurt."

Sam wants to cry out when the blade bites into Olivia's skin but he can't.

The girl is crying soundlessly. Tears leak down her face and into her hair. Her body trembles with fear. Her legs drum against the table.

The man's back is to Sam. He croons softly, like a lullaby, and Sam's gut twists with rage. "It's okay to feel afraid," he whispers. He bends close to Olivia's face and kisses her cheek. "I want you to be afraid."

Sam wants to come out of the vision _right now_. He needs to help Olivia.

Olivia makes a gagging noise and Sam realizes there's something stuffed into her mouth.

The man chuckles, as if he's just heard a good choke. "Here we go," he says, and brings the razor down again.

---

Dean is crouching next to Sam, murmuring his name when the vision ends. Sam stiffens and pulls away from his brother. He's already trying to get away before he knows where he is.

He feels grass beneath his fingers. Cold slush. Mud. He keeps crawling until the nausea squeezes his stomach empty. He dry heaves until his body shakes.

Sam senses Dean hovering beside him and he's grateful. He leans forward and rests his head on the ground. When he tries to open his eyes the light resurrects the pain in his skull. He makes a strangled gasp and then Dean is done hovering. Dean's hand is on his back.

"Dean," Sam rasps. His voice trembles but he doesn't cry. "He's killing her. I think he's killing her right now." He pushes himself laboriously to his hands and feet. He sways and Dean's right there, holding his arm.

The look on Sam's face makes Dean's fingers itch. He wants to punch something or pull a trigger. Preferably both. He'll do anything to get the _despairmiserypain_ out of Sam's eyes.

Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Come on." He lurches toward the neighboring house. "She's here." His voice sounds like tearing paper. "All this time, Dean. She was right here."

Dean half-follows, half-supports Sam. "How do you know?"

Sam turns to look at him and Dean has to look away. He doesn't ask again.

By the time the time they get the weapons from the trunk and reach the front porch Sam is walking on his own. They climb the porch quietly. Sam has a knife tucked safely in his belt and a shotgun full of rock salt. Dean holds a .45. All the bases covered.

Dean opens the outer door quietly. He reached for the inner door when it's suddenly yanked open.

A girl stands in the doorway. Her dark hair is snarled and matted with blood. One eye is swollen shut. Her face is covered in long ugly cuts and the hand that holds the door is wrapped in stained gauze.

It's Olivia Davis.

Her good eye is a wide pool of panic and she leaps backward when she sees the two men. She glances behind her and decides Sam and Dean are the lesser of two evils. "Help me," she gasps, her voice rough, "please."

Dean can see purple handprints tattooed around her neck. His pulse quickens. He's ready to shoot the evil son of a bitch that did this. More than ready. He yanks the door wider. "We're here to help you."

Sam stares at Olivia in amazement. He can still see the blade coming down on her skin, yet here she is, alive. In front of him. He wants to cry with relief. "Olivia," he holds out his hand, "let's go."

Olivia takes a step toward him, hesitates. Her eye grows wider and Dean thinks it's gonna pop if it gets much bigger. "Wait. There's more. There's a bunch of people in the basement. He's killing them!" Her voice is a panicked hiss, the sound of air leaking from a balloon. "Please. Help me get them out. I can't leave them here."

"Let's get you out first, then we'll get them," Dean offers calmly.

Olivia takes Sam's outstretched hand. And she pulls him into the house as if he's made of straw. She grabs his other arm and throws him across the room. Sam smashes into a couch, flips over it like some kind of circus acrobat and lands on a coffee table that buckles beneath his weight. Sam feels splinters dig into his back and thinks, _Oh shit_.

Dean launches himself through the door in time to see Sam smash onto the table. "Sam!"

There's an old man sitting in the corner of the room watching them. A cane leans against one leg. Matthias Townsend. He smiles at Dean as if he's just walked into afternoon tea instead of some fucked-up throw-down with a little girl.

Olivia stands next to Sam, smiling. "It was kind of you to come for Olivia," she tells him, "but I'm afraid you're a little late." Her hand moves to Sam's belt and there's a flash of silver. Something cold slides into Sam's chest.

Sam's too stunned to feel the pain and he grunts "Christo." Olivia jerks backwards. Sam's knife drops to the floor. A moment later, so does she. Olivia opens her mouth to scream and vomits up a black coil of smoke instead. It curls around her head, then past Sam, and over to the old man.

The man opens his mouth like he's waiting for a spoonful of oatmeal (_here comes the choo-choo_) and the smoke pours in and in. Matthias shudders, then opens black eyes. He smiles and taps his cane against the floor. "Gentlemen," he nods, "I've been expecting you."

Dean swallows. He trains the gun on Old Man Demon and makes his way to Sam. Sam's got a hand clapped to his chest but Dean can still see the blood through splayed fingers. "Sammy?"

"I think it stabbed me," Sam says. He remembers Lisa Halverson's warning, _He's going to kill you. _His eyes are apologetic.

Dean's vision swims. "How bad?" he barks.

"I'm not sure," Sam rasps. "It doesn't hurt much," he adds, as if that means _it doesn't really count._

"Dean," Matthias stands. "Would you mind stepping away from your brother?"

Dean's glare is vitriolic. "Depends. Would you mind a bullet in your brain?"

Matthias shrugs. "It's not really my brain, Dean. Matthias would mind, however." He smiles. "But I think I'd get over it with a bit of therapy and a hug."

Dean pulls the trigger anyway, because there's nothing else he can do except try to buy them time. Only the bullet doesn't connect with Old Man Demon's brain pan like Dean hopes it will because Old Man Demon is no longer there.

He's standing next to Dean with a mildly annoyed look on his face. "Now, now," he admonishes. "Let's not be hasty." Dean swings the gun around but the cane arcs up (_too fast, jesus god too fucking fast_) and connects with his face in a blow that makes him feel like his skull has just shattered.

Then he's lifted off his feet and then there's a wall and then there's nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sam and Dean investigate the disappearance of a young girl. Things go from bad to worse. Features: Winchester whumpage, Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean and Limp!Sam. Many thanks to the super amazing Faye and Refur for their awesome beta powers and words of encouragement.

And...thank you for all the wonderful reviews! I really appreciate it! You guys made my month! 3

* * *

Chapter 2: That Man

_That man wears his skin like a dancer wears her veils  
That man stalks his victims like a cancer stalks a cell  
That man's soul has left him his heart's as deadly as a rusty nail  
That man sheds his skin like a veil --- _Cowboy Junkies

Matty Townsend whistles a little tune while he drags Olivia down the basement stairs. The girl is making little whimpering sounds that improve Matty's mood immensely. This one is turning out to be very good. Maybe tonight he'll remove something delicate and have a little sample. He thinks her skin might taste like innocence and fear. His tongue darts across his lips. _Yes._

The tall one groans inside the cage. Matty reaches one shined shoe through the bars and gives his side a sharp kick. No response. Matty tosses Olivia into the far corner of the cage, out of the boy's reach. He considers. Maybe Olivia can wait. He has a new one to play with. A strong one. And from the smell of him, some sort of psychic. The demon in Matty grins. He knew he felt someone tap, tap, tapping at his chamber door earlier.

It's a good thing he did.

He doesn't need a pair of hunters getting in his business. Not when everything has been running so smoothly for so long. No, sir.

Still whistling, Matty turns the key.

---

Sam listens to the demon's footsteps die away. When the silence is thick and constant he rolls over and inches toward Olivia. His chest aches and he folds his t-shirt up and over the wound. It doesn't really stop the bleeding, but it's the best he can do. "Olivia," he whispers, "can you hear me?"

The girl opens her good eye and stares at him. The eye blinks once. Closes.

He tries again. "Olivia. Please."

"I'm going to die."

He can barely hear her words. They fall from her mouth small and tight and bitter. Like moth balls.

"No."

The eye opens again. "It's okay."

Sam inches closer and puts an arm around her. Olivia stifles a cry and scrabbles away like a spider. She crouches in the corner, head bowed and Sam simply stares. He wonders what Matthias Townsend has done to turn a beautiful thirteen-year-old girl into this. He sees the blade bite into her skin. Sam shudders. Maybe he doesn't want to know.

"How do you know my name?" she asks.

"We saw your mom yesterday," Sam tells her. "We've been looking for you."

She turns her head and her hair hangs limp, shadow on shadow. She will not look at him. "You found me."

Sam grunts and positions himself on his back in front of the cage door. He pistons his legs out and slams against the lock mechanism. It creaks but holds fast.

"He doesn't like that," Olivia says.

"I don't...care...what...he...likes," Sam hisses between kicks.

Sam drops his legs and gasps for breath. Fuck. His chest hurts. It hurts with some new and improved kind of pain he's never felt before. He moans and curls into himself.

Olivia scrambles closer. "What happened to– " she stops and backs away again. Now she lifts her head and looks at Sam, her face perfectly blank. "I stabbed you." She holds her hand up, studies it, as if it belongs to someone else. "I stabbed you," she says again. She drops her face down into the dirt and a jagged noise rips out of her.

Sam gingerly uncurls himself and carefully crawls over to her. This time she doesn't back away. "It's okay," Sam grits through a mist of pain. "It wasn't you. You didn't mean to. There was something inside you. Something made you do it." He brushes the tangled hair out of her face. "It wasn't you, Olivia."

"It was the Bad Man," she says through the tears. "The Bad Man made me do it." Abruptly, she stops crying. She sniffs and wipes her face with her bandaged hand. It leaves a smear of dirt and blood across one cheek. "He likes it when I cry," she tells Sam in a way that makes his skin crawl. "He says it tastes good. He says I taste good."

Sam presses his face against her dirty hair and holds her. He doesn't even realize he's crying until her voice whispers in his ear, "Save the tears for him."

---

When Dean comes to he's tired to a chair. He jerks against the rope and rolls his neck. He feels like somebody just played kick the can with his head. He shakes off some of the pain and concentrates on his surroundings.

He's in a bedroom. There's plenty of dust so maybe it's a guest room. Or maybe Old Man Demon's just a piss poor housekeeper. Too busy with the whole killing kids thing to find time to vacuum. He cocks his head and listens. Where's Sam? He remembers the blood on his brother's shirt (_the fucker stabbed Sammy_) and the pounding in his head doesn't seem like such a big deal.

The door opens and Old Man Demon steps in like a dapper Jack Palance on a metric ton of acid. "Ah, Dean. I'm glad to see you're awake."

If Dean could kill with hate alone Matthias Townsend would be a smoldering ruin on the floor. But hate won't cut it and Matthias just waggles his eyebrows instead. "That's not a very friendly look, now is it?"

"Where's Sam?" Dean snarls.

"Your brother is quite safe."

Dean decides he doesn't just hate the older fucker for tying him up or killing kids or hurting Sam. He also hates him for his prissy manner of talking. As if he's really some old genteel dude instead of an old asshole stuffed full of demon.

"I'm thinking my idea of safe and your idea of safe are two different things."

The demon just smiles and looks at Dean. "You may be right," he finally admits. Then, "You're quite interesting. And I can't help but notice you're fairly appealing to the eyes." Matthias walks around Dean and pokes one arm. "Quite young and muscular."

Dean turns his head to follow the demon's movement. Still glaring.

"This body I'm in now is not the best of models. Matty was already a bit long in the tooth when we met. You, on the other hand, would make a nice upgrade." The demon's eyes narrow. "And I can't help but feel you owe me something after the little scene you and your brother caused me."

Dean grins. "Believe me, you aren't getting anywhere near me and if you so much as lay a finger on my brother's head I will kill you. And then I will cut you into so many pieces your pal Satan will think it's raining confetti when you come home."

The demon smiles, delighted. "Confetti! What a charming metaphor."

"Really? Then how about this?" Dean stares the demon full in the eyes and recites from memory: "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis." A pained expression crosses the demon's face and when it smiles Dean swears there are more teeth. Pointed teeth. "Quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum--"

"That's enough of that," Matty says and in a flash he's in front of Dean. He stuffs a lace handkerchief into Dean's mouth. Dean tries to bite the prying fingers but the demon is too quick. Matty pats Dean's shoulder in a _there, there_ gesture. He moves toward the door, pauses. "And by the way, Dean, I'm afraid I already did lay a finger on your brother's head." He puts a hand to his mouth, feigning chagrin. "My bad."

---

Sam manages to get up on his knees and inspect the lock. "Do you have a safety pin?" he asks Olivia.

She shakes her head.

Sam signs and flicks his eyes around the cage for the hundredth time. Steel bars. Dirt floor. Solid lock. About ten feet by ten feet. And then it hits him: dirt floor. He moves to the far side of the cage and checks the floor. It's smooth and hard, but it's still just dirt. And dirt? You can dig that shit up. Shadows pool beyond the cage and Sam squints. He can see more dirt and cobwebs and what looks like field stone walls.

He feels Olivia's presence and turns to look at her. "That's where he's going to bury us," she says with a nod toward the darkness.

Sam shakes his head and grins. "No he's not. Help me dig." It takes a minute, but his short fingernails finally gain purchase and he scrapes away a little of the dirt. He scrapes again and again and by the time a fingernail gives, he's got a pile in front of him. Eventually Olivia pitches in with her good hand. Sam can squeeze one hand under the bottom bar of the cage.

"This is going to take forever," the girl mutters.

Sam inspects his bleeding finger. Keeps digging. "All we have to do is get enough room for you to get out," Sam tells her.

Olivia stops, still holding a handful of dirt. "What about you?"

"My brother can help me. If you get out, you can run for help. What matters is that you get away." Sam manages a smile. For the first time Olivia really seems to see him. More importantly, she believes him.

Olivia scoops the dirt away and says, "Maybe I should leave something behind to prove I was here. I saw that on TV once. A girl was kidnapped and she left a necklace in the cell they kept her in. Later they found the necklace and knew she'd been there."

"Did they rescue her?"

Olivia wipes her hand on her jeans. "No. She died." She looks up at Sam. "But at least they knew who did it, right?" She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small object. He leans forward to see what she has but a voice stops him.

"Tut, tut," Matty says reproachfully. "What's this? Digging a hole to China? I don't think so." He stands outside the cage, frowning in at them.

Sam grips Olivia's arm but she pulls away. She thrusts something into his hand and stumbles to the other end of the cage, arms squeezed desperately around her. "No."

"Yes, my dear. Come along. Don't make a fuss." Matthias unlocks the cage and steps inside.

Sam is on his feet and lurching toward the demon. He doesn't remember standing, yet here he is. "Leave her alone!"

"Don't be jealous," the demon smiles. "You'll have your turn." Sam lashes out with a well-aimed punch. Matthias sidesteps gracefully and catches Sam's hand. He squeezes and Sam drops to his knees. Bolts of agony flare in his hand, up his arm, as bones pop. It hurts like a fucking bitch, but it's the sound of the bones breaking he hates most. "Please," he grits through clenched teeth, "kill me, not her." Matthias smiles tenderly at Sam. "My dear boy, this isn't an either-or situation. You'll both be dead by morning." He leans down to grab Olivia's leg, and pulls.

She drags fistfuls of dirt along with her, but in a moment she's out of the cage. The demon grasps Olivia firmly under the arms and kisses the top her head. "I had been thinking about a midnight snack, but now I'm not so sure. Let's see what happens, shall we?"

Sam pushes himself to his feet, sways, and falls against the bars. His hand is agony. "Don't!" he calls desperately. "Olivia!"

Sam kicks at the bars when she starts to scream. He screams along with her, begging and pleading for Matthias to stop, let her go. He screams until it feels like his chest is on fire and his voice is broken glass. He screams right along with her, cursing Matthias and vowing vengeance until he can't breathe and the world slips sideways into darkness.

---

Dean is trying to get his hand to bend in a direction it clearly does not want to go. Cursing, he tries to reach his back pocket again. He can feel the hard lump of the army knife in one pocket, the softer lump of the holy water plastic bottle in the other. Things could be worse. At least he's not sitting in a puddle. He's got one finger hooked in his pocket when the screaming starts.

He doesn't realize he was holding his breath until it comes out in a rush. His mouth goes dry. Faint screams from below. Two people. One of them sounds like Olivia. And the other one is Sam.

_Sam_.

Dean jerks the chair a few inches to the left, doubling his efforts. Sweat beads down his back and his teeth are clenched so hard his jaw aches. He reaches again and his wrist feels like it's about to snap and _thank christ_, there's the knife.

Finally.

He inches it out slowly, desperate not to drop it. It takes a fucking eternity.

When the screaming stops he doesn't know whether to panic more or less.

---

Sam jerks awake. It's clear something's wrong. Not just I'm-trapped-in-a-cage-and-there's-a-demon-killer wrong but something a few steps beyond even that. When Sam wakes he can't breath. It's the sound of the air whistling in his chest that actually wakes him. He tries to move his hand to the knife wound but there's also something wrong with his hand.

Sam raises his hand to his face and looks at it. He can see it's swollen and purple and there are bones pushed out of place. There's dried blood on his wrist. He shuts his eyes, steels himself. Looks like he got his cast off just in time to get another one. Gritting his teeth, Sam pries open the fingers with his good hand and sees more blood. There's something stuck in his palm. A star. More accurately, a star_fish_.

And he remembers, _Olivia_.

The basement is quiet except for his labored breathing and he rolls himself over with enormous effort. On his side, propped on one elbow, he can see she's back in the cage. He looks down at the starfish and remembers the feel of her fingers, the feel of something being pressed into his hand. Sam closes his damaged hand around the tiny prize. He doesn't want to lose it. He'll give it back to her when this is over. Or when he can find a doctor to cut it out of his palm.

"Olivia." He squeezes her name out through his clenched jaw.

She doesn't move.

He inches closer. With his good hand he can reach her. He puts a hand on her arm, tentative. "Olivia."

His ears ring and the floor undulates. He thinks he might pass out. Sam presses his cheek against the dirt floor and practices breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The in part seems to be more difficult than the out. After a few minutes Sam crawls close enough to see Olivia's face.

Air is suddenly trapped in his throat, in his lungs, and he falls back onto his arm, panting.

_No_.

Olivia's eyes are open. They're fixed sightlessly on the ceiling. In supplication. There's a bib of blood down the front of her shirt. Her throat is cut neatly from ear to ear. Sam's eyes are drawn to the slash. He's pretty sure he can see her spine. He turns his head away just in time, face pressed against the cold bars, and vomits.

Sam collapses onto his back with a low groan. His ribs feel like they're being crushed. He puts his good hand to the wound and it comes away red. He looks down at his shirt and sees more blood. _Shit_. The knife must have pierced his lung. He imagines a pink balloon slowly leaking air into his chest. Pretty soon there'll be nothing left but a shriveled up lung rattling around his chest. There's pressure in Sam's throat and he can't tell if he needs to laugh or cry but he can't do either one because they both require oxygen.

He doesn't really want to die but he wouldn't mind if the pain stopped. He'd like to see Dean. He hopes Dean is okay but he's pretty sure he is because he's not down here in a cage and he's certainly not the one that got gutted by a demon hiding inside a little girl.

A dead little girl.

_You let Olivia die._

_And Jess. That's two for two._

_And while you're at it, where's Ava?_

Kathryn's face winks into his mind, _I want you to bring her back._

Sam's face is wet. He's crying. No, wait. It's something else.

There's something on his forehead.

He looks up blearily and there's Jess.

Pinned above him like a perfect butterfly.

_Oh no. Please no._

She looks at him, her eyes wide with _why_ before the fire blooms hot and fast around her. The fire shifts and then it's Olivia's face looking down. She smiles and her hair burns and she whispers _save your tears_. She reaches for Sam's chest with flaming hands and then the pain takes him away.

---

Dean is coiled behind the door, waiting to spring, when Old Man Demon walks in.

Old Man Demon sees the empty chair and spins, his cane slicing through the air.

This time, Dean is ready.

He ducks and the cane whistles above his head. The cane swings again and Dean uses the door as a shield. He sidesteps, then aims a powerful kick to Old Man Demon's knee. It doesn't bring the demon down, but it knocks him back a few steps. It gives Dean just enough time. He uncaps the holy water and squirts most of the bottle in Matthias' face.

Matthias shrieks, his hands clutching at bubbling skin and the cane drops.

He decides right then that listening to a demon burn is quite possibly the best sound ever. Dean snatches the cane and bolts out of the room. He can hear the hiss of Old Man Demon's burning skin (and his eyes, his eyes--that's just _nasty_) between the yelling and cursing. He slams the door shut. "You just got yourself a time out, dickweed," Dean snarks. He tilts a kitchen chair tight beneath the door knob.

He recaps the bottle and stuffs it back into his pocket. Then Dean turns in a slow circle taking in the kitchen.

Table, chairs, pots and pans. A lot of boring kitchen type shit. But no Sam.

He can see a rectangle of couch and the shattered coffee table through the doorway. His gun is gone, but he brandishes the cane like a bat. "Sam?"

He moves carefully into the living room. Behind him he hears a low scream of rage and the bedroom door rattles. Dean spies the door leading down to the basement and decides this would be a good time to hurry the fuck up. The door is locked but a hearty whack with the cane solves that particular problem. He pounds down the steps. "Sammy? You down here?"

He looks around the large, open room. Cement floor, fluorescent lights, a large table in the center of the room. Dean walks closer, heart pounding, eyes darting from side to side. The table is covered in peeling layers of red. Fresh red droplets pool along the left side of the table. _Blood._ A tray of gruesome instruments sits at the far end of the table.

Dean swallows, not liking the decor. "Sam? Olivia?"

Another boom from upstairs. There isn't much time.

There's another doorway and Dean steps through. This part of the basement is older. More of a root cellar, really. Dirt floor. No windows. And a big fucking cage.

And there's Sam. _In the cage._ He's on the ground and his head is pressed against the bars and Dean struggles to breath. _Shit_. He pulls a set of picks from his front pocket and the padlock snaps open within seconds. "Sammy? Hey there, Geek Boy, this would be a good time to wake up."

He can see Olivia's in the cage too. Her glassy eyes stare up at the ceiling and Dean yanks open the door. _Double Shit._

A huge crash from above. Sounds like Old Man Demon is on the move.

Dean kneels beside his brother. Sam's breathing is labored and he's making a weird whistling sound. His skin feels clammy and it's hard to tell in the crap lighting, but his face looks gray. There's blood caked to all forty-seven shirts Sam's wearing and Dean's jaw clenches. He inhales through his nose. _Come on Sam. Hold on a little longer._

Old Man Demon's voice drifts toward Dean. "Mr. Winchester? I'd like to have a word with you."

Dean shakes Sam's shoulder. "Oh yeah? I'd like a word with you. Two words, really. Ready? Here they are: Fuck. Off."

The demon's voice floats closer. "Why must you humans insist on being so crude?"

Dean drags Sam out of the cage. He wipes sweat off his neck. "Oh, I dunno. How come you demons like to kill little kids?"

Matthias Townsend stands in the doorway, his face a mask of pointed teeth. "That one's easy, Dean." He grins and it's a look that makes a fucking shark look like _Barbie_. "It's fun."

Sam's eyes flutter open and he looks up at Dean, not seeing him. "Olivia?"

"Sam, wake up, I could use a little help here."

Sam blinks and he turns his head to see Matthias. He opens his mouth and spits the words out in a desperate litany. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei Matthias Townsend."

Dean props Sam against the wall. "Now that's what I'm talking about." He positions himself in front of Sam, still holding the cane. He levels a glare at Matthias and his voice joins Sam's.

Matthias growls and the knives and scalpels from the tray lift into the air. They circle the table and then fly at Dean. Dean watches them come. He grips the cane tightly in sweaty palms. Sam hooks a long arm around Dean's legs and pulls. Dean makes a startled noise and drops to the floor. The instruments bounce harmlessly off the bars of the cage, then fall to the ground. A scalpel bounces off Dean's coat, then lands on the floor with a _clink._

The demon stalks closer, eyes black, teeth grinding. He reaches for Dean and Dean bats at a hand with the cane. Dean pushes himself backwards, still muttering the exorcism rite with Sam. Sam reaches for a thin blade and drives it into the center of the demon's shoe, effectively anchoring Matthias' foot to the floor.

The demon hisses and pulls his foot free from the ground, the knife still embedded in his shoe. He reaches down and pulls the knife free and blood spatters across his pant leg and Sam's face. He tosses the knife over his shoulder and kicks Sam in the jaw. Sam's head smashes against the stone wall with a meaty _thwuck_ and his recital stutters to a stop.

Dean grabs for Sam but continues the ritual.

The demon reaches for Dean with a murderous cry.

But he's too late.

Dean says the final word--_Amen_--and Matthias falls against the cage, trembling with rage. "No! You cannot--" but the words are lost in the whirl of black smoke pouring from his mouth.

The demon is gone. Expelled.

Matthias slumps to his knees, head lolling.

---

Dean puts an arm around Sam, pats his too-pale cheek. He puts a gentle hand to the back of Sam's head and it comes away slick with blood. "Sammy? You with me?"

Sam's eyes are dull but they track Dean's movement. The pupils look okay. Dean can't tell if Sam's really seeing him or not. "Sam. We gotta get out of here."

"Dad," Sam's eyes flicker. "I'm okay."

Dean flinches. Takes a steadying breath. He doesn't bother to correct Sam, just pulls up all twenty feet of him and slings an arm around his waist. Sam starts to slide. Cursing, Dean throws the other arm around Sam as well. "Can you walk, Sam?" His voice is pleading. _Please Sammy, please be okay. _

_---_

Dad wants him to walk. He's trying, but he's tired and he doesn't really want to. Sam manages one step, then another. Dad's holding him up, which is weird, because Dad's dead. _Uh oh_. "Am I dead?" he asks John. His voice sounds funny and he's cold. They must be outside. Maybe on a hunt.

---

Dean's face pulls taut with pain. He tries to laugh but the sound comes out a bit too watery for his liking. "No. And you're not going to be. Not until you've had the chance to annoy for about a hundred more years. I know you've got it in you."

---

Sam turns toward Dad but it's hard to see him. It's like looking through water. He's trying to figure out what's going on when the pain reminds him. Demon. Stabbed. _Dying_. At least Dean won't have to kill him now. "Why...did you...tell...Dean he might...have to...kill me?" Sam demands, each word a struggle. "That was…a shitty thing…to do." Sam sucks in a shallow breath. "Not...fair."

---

Dean's heart constricts with guilt. Fear. And the faint embers of anger toward John Winchester. He sighs and drags Sam another step. "You're right," Dean agrees. "It was pretty lousy."

They make it back to the larger room. The staircase feels about a million miles away. Sam's knees buckle and Dean throws a hand out for balance. He pulls at Sam's sleeve. "Dude! Come on. Stay with me, here."

Sam takes a wheezing breath and it sounds like he's trying to force sand into his lungs. "I don't feel good," he mumbles softly.

In the brighter light Dean can see Sam's lips are blue. He glances at Sam's hands and his nostrils flare. Sam's right hand is all fucked up. It looks like something died on the end of his arm. And the fingernails on his other hand are tinged blue.

A coil of fear wraps around Dean's gut and squeezes hard. _Shit on a stick_. _This is bad._ He lowers Sam awkwardly to the ground and reaches for his cell--but it's gone. Off with his gun in Old Man Demon's–_well, just Old Man now_–secret drawer of contraband.

Dean rubs an impatient hand across the back of his neck. He recognizes the signs now, Sam's in shock. He feels for Sam's pulse and it's there, _thank you sweet jesus_, but it's too fast and too weak. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, and pushes it under Sam's legs. Sam blinks up at Dean. He's whispering now, the strain of talking out loud too much. "Dad? I'm sorry about Mom. I'm sorry for being like this. I don't want to be a monster." He closes his eyes and his face twists with pain or regret. Dean can't tell which. "I don't want to hurt Dean." He takes a ragged breath and his back arches, tears on his face.

Dean's throat pinches shut. His eyes burn. "You're not a monster, Sam," he croaks. "Don't you say that. Ever."

Sam's good hand flutters in the air, searching. "Dean?"

Dean grabs Sam's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I'm here, Sammy."

Sam's eyes drift back and forth and finally, with some effort, focus on Dean's face. "Dean?"

Dean manages a precarious smile. "Yep."

Sam smiles back. "Let me die."

Dean blinks at Sam, shocked. "What? No." His voice hardens and he pulls back from Sam a little. "No way. Shut up, Sam."

"Go ahead, let him die," grates a thin voice. "You're going to."

Dean turns to see Matthias Townsend shuffle toward him. Now that he's demon-free, he just looks old and tired and not particularly threatening. The scalpel he's holding doesn't look all that friendly, though.

"For fuck's sake," Dean snarls, "we saved your ass and this is our thanks?" He looks at Sam. "I told you the pay sucks."

"You didn't save me," Matthias whines. "You took away my chance for immortality!"

"I'm gonna take away more than that if you don't back the hell up," Dean growls. He's gonna snap this ungrateful fucker like a twig.

Only he can't. Because someone else has the same idea. The ghost of Lisa Halverson stands by the table, dark eyes fastened on Matthias.

"I can see her," Dean mutters, surprised. He releases Sam's hand and she dims. He takes Sam's hand back and she snaps into focus. _Huh._

Matthias falters at the site of Lisa. She flickers in front of him and reaches for his face with eager hands. Matthias screams. So does Lisa. Her pale form is superimposed over Townsend's, negative over positive, and they cancel each other out. There's a blinding flash and a series of popping sounds. The fluorescent lights shatter into darkness.

---

Dean's afraid to leave Sam, but he's more afraid not to. He races up the stairs and calls 911. He runs right back down and Sam's still alive.

Matthias Townsend isn't. He's on the floor a few feet away, the scalpel still in his hand.

Dean puts a hand to Sam's damp forehead. He pushes Sam's hair back. "Don't leave me."

Sam's answer is the sound of his breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this. Your encouragement and feedback have meant the world to me. :-)

* * *

Chapter 3: This Street

_This life holds its secrets like a sea shell holds the sea,  
soft and distant calling like a fading memory  
This life has its victories but its defeats tear so viciously  
This life holds its secrets like the sea. -- Cowboy Junkies  
_

Dean stands beside the ambulance, helpless, while everyone moves around him. He's the quiet eye in the stormofparamedics and flashing lights. The police arrive but Dean won't talk to them, he won't talk to anyone but the red-haired girl: there's a bunch of people working on Sam, but she's the only one who'll look him in the eye. They work with a kind of urgent detachment that would impress him if he weren't scared shitless.

The EMTs talk to each other in what might as well be code–_tachypnea, decreased breath sounds, respiratory arrest, BP's dropping_–and he feels lost. He understands enough to know that Sam's in trouble. When the red-haired girl--Lindsey--tilts Sam's head and puts a tube down his throat, Dean has to look away.

He tries to lever himself inside the ambulance with Sam, but Lindsey tells him there's no room. Sam's strapped to a gurney and hooked up to machines (_there's so much blood_) and he looks dead (_he's not though, he's not_) and two techs are already crammed in the back with him. One monitors Sam's pulse, the other holds some kind of hand pump over Sam's mouth and squeezes the bag at steady rhythm.

Dean stares at the tech's hands in fascination because those hands are the only things keeping Sam alive. Lindsey pulls Dean away from the ambulance and gives him a look that says, _stop this shit right now_. She says calmly, "If you want Sam to make it to the hospital alive, give us room to work."

Dean nods. He'll give them all the space in the world if it means Sam will be okay.

He follows the ambulance in the Impala and runs two red lights in the process. He's not letting it (_Sammy_) out of his sight. He'd like to see a cop just try to give him a ticket. His knuckles are white on the wheel and his knee bounces a nervous rhythm the whole way. Cars scatter at the sound of the siren; a parting of the steel sea.

After all, that's how it should be. His brother is smarter than all of them. Hell, Sam's pinky is smarter than most other people. Sam needs to live so he can make fun of the way Dean says providence instead of provenance. He needs to live because he's Geek Boy and he calls Dean on his shit. He needs to live because he's all the family Dean's got. He needs to _live._

_Watch out for Sammy._

Only he didn't. And now Sammy's hurt (_not dying though, no_).

Dean's fist comes down hard on the dashboard and he's so pissed, he doesn't even apologize. He parks at a half-assed angle in the lot designated for the Emergency Room. He can still see the ambulance and they're unloading Sam. He hovers near the doors, impotent with rage and worry while they wheel Sam in like he's room service. The muscles in Dean's jaw work, and he can actually see red. Only it's not from his anger, it's the trail of blood drops Sam leaves on the tiled floor like a fucked up version of Hansel and Gretel.

A couple of doctors meet up with Lindsey and her partner and Sam is steered through a pair of swinging doors. Dean tries to follow but a nurse materializes at Dean's elbow with a fake smile and a bitchy voice. She tries to guide Dean back toward the waiting room, but he raises holy hell at the thought of leaving Sam.

At least until a surgeon sticks his head out the door and reminds Dean they're trying to save Sam's life. And it would be a lot easier to save Sam if he'd stop screaming and go sit in the waiting room.

So Dean goes. Nurse Bitchface gives him a bunch of forms to fill out, and even better, the cops are waiting for him.

Officer Petrie is a tall balding dude in his forties. Officer Kellog's young and has that freshly scrubbed look that reminds him a little of Sam. Dean sinks into a chair and leans his head against the wall.

Officer Petrie makes _I'm sorry_ noises with his mouth and Kellog sits next to Dean taking notes. Dean spins a pretty decent yarn about how he and Sam heard screaming from the Townsend house and went to investigate.

"And you said Mr. Townsend stabbed your cousin?" Kellog asks.

Dean nods. "He hit me in the head with his cane. Knocked me out. Tied me up." Dean rubs his face ruefully, pouring on the _aww shucks, I'm a good guy in a bad situation_. "He hit pretty hard for an old guy."

"How did Sam end up in the basement?" Petrie wants to know.

"I don't know. I was out of it for a while. I think Townsend dragged Sammy down. He had that girl down there and Sam wanted to save her--"

Kellog jumps in. "Olivia Davis."

"Yeah." Dean's shoulders slump. "We couldn't save her," he finishes softly. He eyeballs the desk where Nurse Bitchface is sitting. "Can this wait? What else do you guys need?"

Kellog and Petrie share a look. "Preliminary results indicate Mr. Townsend died from a heart attack."

Dean's jaw clenches. The bastard got off easy. If he had the time and energy he'd love to bring the fucker back from the dead just to kill him again. The cops ask a few more questions. Dean continues his line of bullshit until Petrie says, "We also found what look like several graves in the back of the basement, behind the cage."

Dean's eyes snap back to the officer. _Hello, Lisa Halverson._ "Really." He wants to be surprised. But he's not.

Kellog nods. "It looks like Mr. Townsend has been doing this for quite some time. We found some...mementos in one of the bedrooms."

A fresh wave of rage rolls over Dean. He wonders if part of Sam would have ended up on a shelf if things had gone differently. He ejects the thought from his head, because otherwise, he's going to start hitting things.

Kellog flips his notebook shut and gives Dean a sympathetic look. "That's all for now. Where can we reach you if we have more questions?"

Dean shrugs as if it's obvious. "I'll be right here."

---

He's on the beach again.

Sam can see a small group of women nearby. Blond hair blows in the gentle breeze and his heart leaps. It's Jess. And maybe…Mom? Jess waves and Sam laughs. He runs toward them, bare feet against white sand.

---

Dean scribbles a bunch of lies on the various hospital forms. He uses the same name he gave the cops: Dan A. Schulps. Bitchface gives him another plastic smile when hands off the forms. He gives one back, but she still won't tell him jack shit about Sam.

Dean paces the length of the waiting room. There are three other people in the room: an elderly woman fussing with a tank of oxygen, and a weary looking woman with a little boy. The boy is red-faced and crying and he sounds the way Dean feels. Dean walks past the desk, around the fish tank, and back to the bank of chairs. He walks around his self-made track counting the number of circuits, but he's the only thing moving. Time stands still.

Eventually he drops back into a chair, his head in his hands. _Please let Sam be okay. Let him live_. Dean snorts into his hands, eyes wet. What in God's name was his father thinking? There's no way he can kill Sam. Ever. Even if Sammy does go Dark Side (_and he won't, Dean'll save him, he will_) and eats babies for breakfast and kills kittens for lunch, Dean won't kill him. It's not in him. Even if Sam begs, Dean won't. Can't. There's just no way. Without Sam to watch out for, what else is there? They're a set. A matched pair. Sam and Dean. Dean and Sam. One without the other just doesn't make sense.

Dad's death was horrible. _Is_ horrible. Will continue to be horrible. But losing Sam? Dean doesn't want to consider it. Not even the possibility.

He remembers the sound of the explosion, wood raining down on him, Gordon's soft, _Just wait_. And there was a moment of pain and terror so great Dean thought his heart would just _stop_ right then and there. But Sam's voice broke the spell. Everything was okay.

Dean runs both hands through his hair, waiting. He waits to hear Sam's voice again.

---

A surgeon finally comes to see Dean around eleven. He's still in scrubs and blood (_Sam's blood_) stains the sleeves. Dean jumps to his feet and rubs nervous hands on the thighs of his jeans. The doctor extends a hand. He looks tired and serious and Dean's stomach clenches because he can't tell what the doctor's expression means. "Hi there. I'm Dr. Shaefer Truman."

Dean grasps his hand, shakes once. "Dan Schulps."

Dr. Truman nods. "You're Sam's cousin?"

Dean keeps his gaze steady. "Yeah." He pauses, then adds, "I'm his only family."

Dr. Truman offers a weary smile. "Sam's going to be okay. When he came in he was in respiratory distress and in shock. He was intubated and we found unilateral absence of breath sounds. Those three things combined--the respiratory distress, shock, and absence of breath sounds--indicated tension pneumothorax. A CT scan and chest x-ray confirmed it."

Dean swallows, his mouth dry. "That's what? A collapsed lung?"

"Basically, yes. When Sam was stabbed, the knife punctured his lung. That caused the pleural space–the area between the skin and lungs–to fill with air. The more air that fills the space, the more pressure is put on the heart to keep working. We inserted a needle between the ribs to release the trapped air."

Dean feels a steady pounding in his head. He puts a hand behind him, feeling for the chair. "But...he's okay?"

"He will be. Right now he's resting in post-op. I sewed up the stab wound and everything went smoothly. Your cousin is lucky. There's no damage to the internal organs."

Dean's eyes narrow. _Lucky?_ "Except for his lung."

Truman nods. "Yes, except for his lung. He has a chest tube in to help inflate the lung. It should take a few days."

Dean sinks into the chair. "A few days?"

Truman nods again. Dean thinks he's starting to look like a bobble head. "I'll have Amy come get you in a few minutes once Sam's situated. There's an orthopedist with him now, checking his hand." He turns, throws in a final nod, and stalks away.

Dean watches his back until the elevator doors close.

---

He's sitting cross-legged on the sand.

The waves are a liquid metronome, rolling in, rolling out. They sit around him in a circle: his mother, Jess, Ava, and Olivia. The sky is crayon blue and the clouds are wisps of cotton. Sam closes his eyes, feels the sun against his face. He feels Jess' hand, her fingers interlock with his. He can feel her breath on his face when she leans over and asks, "Why did you let me die?"

---

Dean is sprawled into the chair in the corner of Sam's room. It's not that bad, really. The chair is oversized and reclines. He's got the chair tilted back, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his leg. Sam's nurse is a pretty blond number named Lori and Dean pours on the charm like salt on a sill. She's married, but she likes to flirt and that means Dean can spend the rest of the night in Sam's little cubicle. _Jackpot._

He's tired but he can't sleep because Sam still looks half dead and oh yeah, there's a _fucking tube_ coming out of his chest. There's a small forest of monitors around Sam's bed and Dean watches them. Lori explained that Sam's oxygen rate should ideally stay at about ninety percent saturation.

So far the numbers are cooperating and Dean's not too freaked out. Sam's got a little clip on the end of his finger that measures his oxygen saturation. It makes him look like friggin' E.T.

Sam's right hand is back in a cast. He has what the orthopedist calls a comminuted fracture–when there are at least three bone fragments. Sam has _eight_ bone fragments. The orthopedist repositioned the bone fragments in Sam's hand and inserted screws to hold them in place. It sounds painful and Dean can't imagine having pieces of metal in his hand. The only good thing about this whole effed-up situation is he can ask Sam what it's like to finally get screwed.

---

Mary offers Sam a tender smile and pats his knee. "I love you, sweetie." Her smile fades. "But it's your fault I died."

Jess tucks a strand of hair behind one ear and bites her bottom lip. She withdraws her hand from Sam's. "Why didn't you didn't warn me, Sam?"

Ava shakes her head, folds her arms. "I saved your life. Why didn't you try to save mine?"

Olivia draws her knees up and clasps her hands around them. She rests her chin on her knees, watching the seagulls dive.

Sam looks from face to face for some sign small of forgiveness or acceptance, but all he finds is reproach, regret, anger, loss. He wants to say he's sorry but he can't speak. There aren't enough words in the world to tell these women how sorry he is.

---

Dean's just about asleep when a noise pulls him awake. Sam's moving on the bed. Not thrashing exactly, but close, and his face is contorted with pain. Dean has visions of Sam tangling up the IV and the pulse oximeter wire and quickly moves to Sam's side. "Sam?"

Sam's chest hitches; he's gasping for breath.

"Sammy?"

Sam's on his knees in the water. They're gathered around him, hands on his back and neck, forcing him down. Mary's hand is on his head, her fingers stroking his hair. "Your father entrusted Dean with an important job, Sam. Do you understand that? He has to save you."

Ava says, "He can try."

"Is he strong enough?" Jess wonders.

"It's too late," Olivia whispers.

"And if he can't save you, Sam, then you have to die."

Sam's face is wet with salt water. His eyes sting, but not from the salt. "Mom. Please. I'm sorry." Mary studies her son's face with a look of infinite sadness. "I'm sorry too," she says. "Dean can't save you." And she holds his head beneath the water.

---

Dean's eyes snap to the machines and before his brain can make sense of the numbers an alarm goes off. Dean stands by the bed, paralyzed. Sam's oxygen saturation is at 84. Another machine starts to warble in protest and Dean's paralysis breaks. He bolts to the door but Lori is already there. She slips past Dean and checks the seal on Sam's chest tube, fiddles with the machines.

Dean wants her to turn off the alarms and say everything's fine, but she doesn't.

"What's wrong?" Dean demands. _Come on, Sam._

Sam's stats continue to drop and Lori picks up the phone and presses a button. Within seconds another woman wearing scrubs rushes into the room. "What?"

"Dyspnea," Lori says and then, "I increased his oxygen. Should I administer Albuterol?"

"What's that?" Dean wants to know. Neither woman pays him the slightest attention. He's frustrated, but he knows it's more important they help Sam.

The doctor nods. "2.5 mg with 3 cc saline."

Lori administers the medication through Sam's IV and within a few minutes there's noticeable improvement in Sam's breathing. "Dyspnea is when you can't catch your breath," she explains to Dean. "Sort of like if you've been exercising a lot. Sometimes people with chest injuries have a hard time breathing." She pats Dean's arm. "But we've fixed the problem, and the more Sam's lung reinflates, the less chance there is of another episode."

Dean pulls the chair next to Sam's bed while Lori updates his chart. He puts a hand on Sam's. "Quit that not-breathing thing," he says, almost keeping his voice steady. "You almost gave me heart attack. We can't _both_ be stuck in this place."

---

Water pours into Sam's throat and it burns. His chest is being crushed under the weight of the ocean. Under the weight of guilt. He can't breathe.

He. Can't. Breathe.

He senses movement. Just barely. Someone (_Dean_) has his hand. Someone (_Dean_) is pulling him back to shore. Back to the world. Back to life.

Back to _Dean._

---

Lori is taking Sam's temperature when he grips Dean's hand. His eyes open and he jerks, immediately fighting the breathing tube. He rolls his head, neck muscles bulging, and looks at Dean with wild eyes.

"Sam, it's okay," Dean says, not really knowing if it is or not. He flashes Lori a look that says, _help him, dammit_! He puts a hand on each side of Sam's head. "Look at me. Sam. Look. At me."

Sam stops struggling and focuses on Dean. Their eyes lock and Dean reads the fear and confusion. The pain. He runs a hand through Sam's too-long hair. "You're okay. You're gonna be okay." Dean's not sure if he's trying to convince Sam or himself. Probably both.

Lori removes the breathing tube and Sam gags. He's pale and sweaty and looks generally like crap. Dean keeps his hands on Sam's head, grounding him. "D...ean." Sam's voice is a choked whisper.

"I'm here, dude. I'm not going anywhere." Dean grins and blinks watering eyes. _And neither are you._

---

Sam feigns sleep. He's out of the ICU now and in his own room. He's sick of the nurses' prodding. His head hurts. His chest hurts. His hand _hurts_. He's exhausted, but he's not eager to sleep (_to dream_). He thinks he's doing a pretty good job on the whole faking thing until he feels Dean poke his arm. "Dude. I know you're awake."

Sam sighs and cracks his eyes open. "Yeah. I guess I am."

"How are you feeling?"

Sam avoids Dean's face. "I've felt better."

"You've looked better too." Dean squinches his face in disgust and lowers his voice as if imparting some great--but distasteful--secret. "You've got a freakin' tube in your chest."

Sam glances down at his chest with wide eyes and makes a big production of being shocked. "Oh my God!" Then he rolls his eyes and regards Dean with a look that clearly says, _You? Are so lame._

Dean snorts. "Seriously, I might like one of those things if I could get one that pumped in coffee."

Sam's voice is long suffering. "This isn't pumping coffee into me, Dean."

Dean smirks. "No kidding. The doctor said you were so full of hot air this was the one way to get rid of it."

Sam closes his eyes again. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

Dean chuckles.

The silence falls fast and heavy between them. Dean scratches his head. Starts tapping his foot. Whistles a few measures of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_.

"Dean?"

Dean's foot pauses. "What?"

"Did...Matthias die?"

"You don't remember?"

Sam can hear the frown in Dean's voice. "I remember we got the demon out, but after that...only bits and pieces."

"Lisa Halverson made a guest appearance and took care of things."

Sam considers the information. Then asks, "And Olivia? She's dead?"

"Sam..." Dean's voice holds a warning.

"Right?"

Dean exhales heavily. "Yes."

Sam's jaw clenches. He remembers her wide, staring eyes, but maybe, just maybe...no. There are no maybes. She's dead.

"It's not your fault."

Sam stares up at the ceiling, silent. But he's fucking screaming in his head. The dream comes back to him, hands on his face and neck. Pushing. Holding him down. And no wonder. It's his fault. Olivia is dead because of him. They're _all_ dead because of him.

"Dude, I'm going to get that tattooed on your arm. Save myself a lot of time and energy if I don't have to tell you it every five minutes."

Sam continues his silence and Dean starts the tapping back up. "Do you remember what you said back in the basement? Before the paramedics came?" He asks suddenly.

Sam keeps his face neutral. "No. What?"

"You said I was the best big brother in the whole world."

Sam can't stop the way his mouth quirks into a half smile. "_Really_."

Dean shrugs. "It's true of course, but I was a little surprised to hear you actually admit it."

"I'm surprised you heard it too, since I didn't say anything like that."

"How do you know? You said you only remember bits and pieces."

"Dean."

"You were _really_ out of it," Dean reminds him.

Sam's smile falters and he studies his cast with intense interest. He says softly, "I remember one thing I said."

Dean hesitates. "What?"

Sam's eyes shine with tears. "You could have let me die. I wouldn't have been mad."

Dean's face hardens. "Sam," he growls, "I am _not_ having this conversation."

"Fine. I am."

"Then you'll be talking to yourself because there are a lot of nurses around here I haven't even begun to hit on." Dean stands and makes his way to the door. He stops, his back to Sam.

Sam wishes he could make his brother understand. Letting him die isn't the same as _wanting_ him to die. "It could have solved a lot of problems, that's all," he says, his voice ragged. "The Demon wouldn't be able to get to me. You...wouldn't have the responsibility..."

"Aww, shut it, Sam." Dean turns back to Sam, his face flushed with anger. "My job is to keep you safe. Not let you die."

"Dad said–"

"I don't care what Dad said." Dean's voice is harsher than he intends. He makes an effort to stay calm. "It'll never come to that."

The pain in Sam's eyes makes Dean feel useless. "You don't know that."

Dean nods his head a few times. "Yeah, I do know. I can...I can feel it."

Sam's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "What? Now _you_ have the shining?"

"No. I just have...faith."

Sam's eyebrows disappear into his bangs. He's clearly skeptical. "In _what_?"

Dean shrugs. "In you." Their eyes meet. And Sam can see it, plain as day. Dean's trust. His faith. Sam can _feel_ it.

And Dean walks out the door.

---

Sam listens to Dean's footsteps move down the hall and he rubs his eyes. Dean has faith in him? So did Jess. _Look where that got her._

He's afraid of Dean's faith. Afraid he'll let him down. And he can't stand that. The stakes are too high. How can Dean have faith in him when he doesn't have faith in himself?

He hates lying here, helpless and hooked up to machines. He can almost feel The Demon getting closer and he wants to take action. Research. Fight. Plan. Do something (_anything_) besides feel depressed and guilty and scared.

He wants to find an answer. Solve the puzzle of kids like him and Scott and Ava. Max and Andy and Anson. Because as much as Dean wants to save him, Sam wants to save Dean _more_.

---

Dean stares blankly at the vending machine. He has his choice of crap coffee, crap coffee, crap coffee, and crap hot chocolate. He sticks a few coins in the slot and picks crap coffee number three.

Sam's driving him crazy. What a dumbass. _You could have let me die_. There's about the same chance of him _letting_ Sam die as there is of him sprouting wings. Or listening to Sarah McLachlan.

Dean takes the long way back to Sam's room so he can pass the nurses station. Bitchface is there and Dean winks at her. Her mouth drops open in shock and Dean snorts out a laugh.

He knows Sam's just scared. Freaked out by the whole I-have-plans-for-you thing and the hey-I-might-have-to-kill-you if those plans come to fruition. Dean shakes his head. He should have told Sam the truth a long time ago. He should have done it differently. Actually, he should have done a _lot_ of things differently. But he'll make it up to Sam. _And_ he'll keep him safe. That's a promise.

---

Dean's still holding the untouched coffee when he enters Sam's room. "Jeez, this stuff is hotter than lava," he complains, and sets the cup on a rolling table. That's when he sees they're not alone.

Sam's eyes are red and wounded, focused on the far side of the room. Kathryn Davis is standing there, leaning against the radiator, arms folded across her chest.

_Oh shit._

Her eyes are just as red as Sam's. Her hair is greasy and unkempt and she flicks a bleary look at Dean. "Agent Ulrich," she says.

Dean licks his lips. "Uh, yeah, about that..."

"I know you're not FBI agents." Dean risks a quick look at Sam and Sam nods, resigned. "I don't really care who you are," she continues. "You found my daughter." Her face contorts into a look of such rage and bitterness Dean takes an automatic step backwards. "Next door to my _house_." Her mouth trembles and she sniffs deeply. And then the rage is gone, swallowed back inside and pulled down deep; the familiar blankness slips over her features.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring her--bring her back to you," Sam says, his voice breaking.

Kathryn regards Sam with empty eyes. "You did bring her back." Her mouth curves slightly. "At least we know what happened to her. And I'm grateful for that. So thank you."

"Mrs. Davis--" Sam tries, but she cuts him off.

"Kathryn," she corrects. "_Mrs. Davis_ makes me sound old." She shrugs. "But I guess...I am old. I feel old." She adjusts her purse over her shoulder and drifts to the door.

"Kathryn," Sam says, "I'm so sorry."

Kathryn looks from Sam to Dean and back to Sam. "Me too."

---

Sam is quiet after Kathryn leaves. Dean sits by the bed, half-heartedly working on a cross-word puzzle when he's not casting side-long looks at Sam.

"I know you feel guilty because you're a freak and all, but we did the best we could for Olivia," Dean finally says, tossing the puzzle onto the edge of Sam's bed. "You did the best you could."

Sam's adam's apple bobs and blinks a few times, but he still works the silence.

"And you had no reason to think Ava was in danger," Dean continues. "So stop beating yourself up." Dean leans back in the chair and frowns at Sam. "Are you even listening to me or am I just talking to myself, here?"

Sam's face is pinched with misery, but he nods.

"Good. Because I have three words. Ready?" Dean counts off on his fingers, "Charley, Lori, and Sarah. We saved those girls. And we've saved a lot more people. I know you think we're a little low in the saving people column, I get that. But we're doing okay. We're trying. And that's...that matters, Sam." He throws a half-smile Sam's way. "It matters a hell of a lot."

Sam wipes at his face and nods again. He tries to smile back. "You're right. It does matter," he says thickly.

Dean pats Sam's shoulder. "Now are you gonna cry like a girl again? Cuz I'm gonna have to ask the nurse for extra kleenex."

Sam flips Dean the bird but his eyes say _thank you_.

---

Sam's chest tube is removed on day three of his hospital stay. His lung looks good, the wound is healing, the main concern now is his hand. The orthopedist returns and talks about physical therapy but Sam merely nods and makes the appropriate mouth noises. He and Dean will be long gone before his cast comes off. He'll have to make time for P.T. on the road.

Dean tosses a stress ball at Sam's head and tells him not to worry about it.

Sam glares and throws the ball back. It bounces off Dean's forehead and smacks into the wall. The look on Dean's face is murderous and Sam laughs. It's honest and real and sounds a little like music; Dean's face relaxes into annoyance.

Dean turns the chair around and straddles it, squeezing the ball in one hand. "You know, maybe we don't have to get you P.T. on the fly," he says. "Maybe we can settle down for a while."

Sam's mouth twitches. "Uh-huh. And where do you want to settle down? A Las Vegas strip club?"

Dean strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Not where I was going, but not a bad idea. Not at _all,_ Sam." He points a finger at Sam, then taps his head. "Now you're using your head for something besides a punching bag."

Sam's eyes roll. "You were saying?"

Dean puts on his serious face, takes a deep breath. "Okay, just hear me out. Please."

Sam's forehead wrinkles. A warning bell goes off in Sam's head. "Okay."

Dean squirms in the chair like a kid stuck inside at recess. "I was thinking...that maybe...you might want to go back to school."

Sam's face says _what?_ before his mouth does. He looks at Dean, then around the room as if maybe there's a hidden camera somewhere. "What are you talking about?"

Dean rolls the ball between his hands. "I know you wanted to go back to school. Maybe this is your chance, you know? We can lie low." Dean tips his head at Sam's expression. "I can come with you. Not to school," he adds quickly, "but I can hang out in Palo Alto. We can share an apartment, hunt things around the area, you know? And you can still be Lawyer Boy."

Dean's voice is casual but Sam can see the pleading in his eyes. He doesn't know what to say. Because this is what he wanted for so long. To go back to school, back to the _normal_, back to where he felt safe. How many times has he daydreamed about something like this? And never in his wildest dreams did he imagine Dean offering to make it come true.

Sam's throat is tight. His smile is tighter. "Dean, you have no idea how much that means to me. How much..." he takes a deep breath, struggles to get himself under control. "That you would...would encourage me to go back to college. That you would go with me."

Dean is uncomfortable but forges on. "So you'll go?"

Sam twists one end of the sheet into a point. Untwists it. He turns to Dean and offers a cheerless smile. "No."

Dean rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling in a _why me?_ gesture. "What? Why? I thought you wanted normal. This is your chance to be Joe College. Apple pie and picket fences, here we come."

Sam shakes his head and reaches out to touch Dean's arm. "Dean. I appreciate the offer, I really do. But...I'm not that guy anymore. I'm not the guy who wants to go back to Stanford and be a lawyer. I'm not sure I ever _was_ that guy. I think...I think I just _wanted _to be that guy." He lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. "Besides, after everything in Baltimore, I'm not sure I could even–"

Dean dismisses Sam's concern with a wave of his hand. "Forget that. I'll help you straighten things out. Diana will help you straighten things out, I know it."

"That's not the point," Sam says gently. "_This_ is my normal now," he waves a hand vaguely around the room. "Hunting. _You're_ my normal. I don't need anything else." And it doesn't hurt to admit. Not the way he thought it would. It feels right (_normal_) being with Dean. There's nowhere he'd rather be.

Stanford was a beautiful dream while it lasted, but the time for dreams is over. He's okay with that. He has more important things to do than dream. He has to _save_ people (_Dean_). He _has_ to. Destiny's eye is on him, and it's like looking down the barrel of gun.

Dean blinks back tears. "Sam. Please."

"Dude, you'd die of boredom in the first ten minutes," Sam says with a hint of amusement.

"It's not about me," Dean grits, "it's about _you_. Keeping you safe."

"What makes you think I'd be safe at Stanford?" Sam asks. "Because Jessica wasn't." He pinches the bridge of his nose, tries to rub away the beginning of a headache. "I don't think I'm safe anywhere, Dean. Not really. I know that's not what you want to hear. But it's the truth."

"You're safe with me," Dean replies stubbornly.

"And that's where I feel safest," Sam agrees. "I'm thankful for that." He pauses. "For you." He pats Dean's arm. "Even if you are the biggest jerk I know."

Dean huffs and rests his head on the railing of Sam's bed in defeat. "You. Are such. A stubborn ass."

Sam laughs. "I learned from the best."

---

In another day Sam is up and walking around. He's not ready for a marathon, but he's not tripping over his feet, either.

"Anything?" Dean asks.

Sam checks his voice mail and sighs, dejected. "No."

Dean considers saying _I'm sure she'll turn up_, or _she's probably just lying low cuz she's scared_, but he doesn't. He's tired of lying.

Sam drops the cell phone into his duffle along with the stress ball and a few first aid supplies he's appropriated from the hospital. Gauze, band-aids, ointment. Anything that might come in useful.

He pulls the broken starfish out of his pocket and studies it.

"What's that?" Dean asks, grabbing his bag from a chair. He looks closer, then scowls. "That's the starfish? And they _gave_ it to you? That's just wrong."

Sam returns it to his pocket. "I asked for it."

Dean's lip curls and he makes a face. "Why?"

"There's someplace I need to take it."

"To the nearest garbage can?"

Sam's look says _shut it, dude_. "No, to the ocean."

Dean stops, bag dangling from his arm. "The ocean? As in, a big blue body of water?"

"Yup."

Dean elbows Sam toward the door and they peer down the hallway. All clear. Dean doesn't reply until they're in the elevator. "You really want to drive all the way to the Pacific–"

"Atlantic."

"–Atlantic Ocean so you can toss a broken starfish that was _surgically removed_ from your hand into the water?"

Sam considers. "Sounds about right."

Dean punches the button marked first floor. "So I take it this is some sort of bullshit that makes you feel better about Olivia?"

"I love it when you show your sensitive side," Sam snarks.

Dean snaps his fingers and grins. "Oh dude, chicks in bikinis. _Sweet_."

---

It's fifteen hours to Virginia Beach. Sam sleeps most of the way and Dean alternates between Zeppelin and Sabbath on the drive. They arrive after nightfall and the beach is mostly deserted.

Neither of them cares about the Boardwalk and Dean just follows Sam's lead.

They end up standing by a rocky outcropping, watching the waves. It's the same roar Sam heard when he put a shell to his ear as a kid. It's the same sound Olivia heard in her room while she dreamed of a future. It's the same sound he heard in his dream.

Sam can still feel the touch of phantom hands. _Dean can't save you. _Maybe not.But maybe he can save Dean.

Sam squints out at the ocean, looking for Jess or Mom, but there's no one. Just him and Dean.

Sam's got the starfish in one trembling hand. "I still miss her Dean," he admits, voice low. It's always easier to admit the truth in the dark.

Dean looks at his brother, steps closer. He knows he's not talking about Olivia. "I know." He rests an arm on Sam's shoulder. He likes it here. The cool sand beneath his feet, the wind on his face.

Sam bends his arm back and then throws. The starfish arcs up and out and he thinks, _shooting star_, and then it's gone, sinking into black water. He lowers himself gingerly to the ground and sits cross-legged on the sand. Dean sits beside him.

They watch the waves pound the shoreline.

Sam closes his eyes, listening for the sound of forgiveness.

--end--


End file.
